the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Literary (Page 12 of 17)

A Birthday Chick-Lit Tale: The Royal Bra

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Thanks for all the cool photos! I know that this is going to sound sappy, but I can’t think of a BETTER birthday present than having you come to this site and actually READ the nonsense I write. So, thanks.

I have no idea where this is going, or if I’ll ever finish it, but just knowing you’re reading it makes me laugh —

The Royal Bra by Neil Kramer

Chapter One

“I can’t believe I’m actually here,” Sarah said, pinching her own arm. “Me, lil’ Sarah Rothberg, here in Manhattan at the British Consulate at an exclusive party for the Royal Family.”

She closed her eyes thinking it all a dream, but when she reopened them, the amazing reality had not disappeared. The whole night had been a whirlwind for Sarah, from the moment she entered the British Consulate. What glamour and elegance! And so far from her typical dorky life of a Brooklyn-born working drone/editorial assistant for Science Interest Magazine.

Sarah knew she was out of her element from the moment she was announced at the door, and saw all the well-dressed guests and the lush 19th Century interior. She immediately ran to get a glass of champagne to calm her nerves. And then another. And then a third. Since when did she become such a lush? She knew she was getting a bit tipsy after that third glass of champagne.

“Sure,” she rationalized, “I was hoping to become a little more comfortable and social by having a few drinks — it is a party after all — but how in the world did I end up in the second floor “library” making out in the darkness with a virtual stranger? I’m a good girl. Sarah Rothberg doesn’t do one night stands.”

Although she couldn’t make out the books on the shelves, she was sure that Jane Austen was there, watching her.

“Would she scold me for being so brazen, or would she say “You go, girl!?”” Sarah wondered, giggling to herself.

Maybe tonight will be the night.

Sarah’s mind drifted back to the man on the sofa who was kissing her so passionately. And what a kisser he was! If this is wrong to do, let it be.

“No jury would ever convict me, ” she thought. “I would tell them about his lips, the way his hands tenderly feel my body. Oh, he’s good. Real good. Not guilty. By reason of insatiable.”

Sarah’s impure thoughts were just getting good when they were rudely interrupted by the alarm blasting from her iPhone.

“Oh no, I have to go,” screamed Sarah, gathering up her clothes and running out the library door.

“But wait…” said a deep male voice. “Don’t go. I don’t even know…”

But Sarah was already halfway down the stairs. She was feeling dizzy. The champagne. The man. The emotions. She had to stay focused. She had to leave the Consulate before the stroke of midnight, when her Guy Larouche sapphire-blue gown would dissolve back into a pair of Levis.

It’s what the fairy godmother told her.

Back in the library, His High Royal Highness Prince Robert of Cornwall flicked the light to the library, revealing a shirtless man with the toned chest of a sportsman. Rushing to the window, he hoped to still catch a glimpse of the woman he has just met, but he only saw her for a second, until she disappeared into the New York dark.

“Please come, back.” he whispered to the night air. “I don’t even know your name.”

In all his years, Prince Robert had met many women — specimens of the gender who were thought to be his “equal” — beauties with exquisite taste, proper upbringing, well-travelled, pencil-thin daughters of billionaires who knew how to place a baccarat bet in Monte Carlo or what wine to order at Alain Ducasse in Paris. But never has he met a woman like the women he just kissed. What passion. He could still taste her on his lips and feel her skin next to hers. Had she even known that he was the Prince? Did it matter? The more he thought about her, the more he could feel the Mountbatten of his loins saluting at full attention. Hail Brittania!

He must find her. But how? If only he had some sort of clue, some information that can lead him to the woman… the one who he must make the Princess!

And then he saw it. The clue. Hanging on the edge of the sofa, was… her bra. He remembered how he gently unclasped the back of the bra and it fell down, away from her, like falling leaves during Autumn in Hyde Park.

Prince Robert walked over to the hanging bra, savoring the feel of the material, remembering how her breasts responded to his caresses. It was a purple bra. He read the label. It was from a company that he had never heard of mentioned in his social circles, where bras are usually tailor-made in France.

“Playtex Cross Your Heart,” he read out loud to himself. He took it as a sign from God. “I DO cross my heart that I will find you.”

Prince Robert dressed and went downstairs. He saw his father, the King of England, deeply in conversation with his friend, the new President of the United States, President Obama.

The King waved Prince Robert over.

“President Obama, this is my son, Prince Robert.”

But Prince Robert was not in any mood for pleasantries or chit-chats. He had something more important on his mind.

“President Obama, I know we have just met. But I have something very important to ask you that will play a significant role in Anglo-American relations. I need your help.”

Then, in one strong, swift, upward gesture, Prince Robert lifted up the purple bra for all to see.

“We need to find the American woman who fits perfectly into this bra!”

Within hours, there was a frenzy in the media, both on TV and in the blogosphere. Twitters were being sent all across the world, spreading the news. New York was in an uproar. The New York Post was the first to announce an open call with their headline:

“Prince Robert to New York: BRA-VA!”

“An open call will be held tomorrow afternoon at Madison Square Garden. Women will be expected to try on a specifically-sized bra. Only one woman will fit perfectly in the bra.”

By morning, there was chaos. Women of all shapes and sizes lined up outside Macy’s on 34th Street and little by little, the line grew. And grew. The line snaked it’s way uptown, past Central Park, past the Upper West Side, past Harlem, and into the Bronx. Many of the women, knowing that they were going to try on a bra once they reached the Garden, made a point of just wearing a bra in the street — hopefully catching the attention of the Prince before they even got to the Garden. Some women dispensed with bras completely, going topless, thinking the Prince would appreciate their resourcefulness. And besides, it was a beautiful day.

It was a sight never seen before in New York, and probably never again. Thousands and thousands of women of every religion and color, shape and size, standing in line, the fresh air hitting their exposed bras and breasts. For once, women found themselves free to talk about their breasts in public. Some talked about breast-feeding. Buxom women were supportive of women with A-cups, saying how athletic they looked. Flat-chested women spoke of their envy of full-breasted women. Big-breasted women complained about back pain. Women started taking donations for breast cancer research, and gave each other bra-buying advice. Some women wore special, elaborately-decorated bras for the occasion, and New York’s artistic community came out in force, with female artists constructing their own bras out of unique materials, such as felt and tin cans.

For men, it was a major holiday — a day every male New Yorker will remember in happiness for the rest of his life, much like VJ Day, or the Mets winning the World Series. Throughout the city, women were walking around, taking the buses, eating hot dogs — just wearing their bras. By afternoon, men began to even see it as normal and just enjoyed the view, without making such a big deal over what God gave women.

Of course, for many men, it was overwhelming. Ronald Boxner, age 78, had a massive heart attack and was rushed to Mount Sinai Hospital. As he was being rushed by ambulance, he knew his time on this Earth was up. He asked the emergency worker if he help him lift his head, so he could just watch the women with bras walking in the city.

“Of course,” said the EMT.

Ronald Boxner died a few moments later. His final word were, “This is the happiest day of my life.”

Of course, this outpouring of women into midtown Manhattan was not all for noble reasons. For many women, this was all about MONEY and POWER. They were there to snag a rich husband. These golddiggers would never truly love Prince Robert.

Sadly, New York City is filled with these golddiggers. Like Shirley and Jackie.

Shirley and Jackie have always been on the prowl for men. They also have no respect for the male gender, thinking them as horny dumb creatures, who are only after sex. Shirley and Jackie use whatever it takes to nab a wealthy man. Both are owners of the latest in breast enhancements, created by — and they would be proud to tell you this — the older brother of the doctor who worked on Pamela Anderson’s boobs in Los Angeles. This is not the first time that they have had surgery on their breasts, or their lips, or the thighs.

“There’s no way I’m gonna be stuck with a loser guy from Brooklyn.” is Shirley’s motto. “If wealthy guys like big tits, that’s what I’m gonna give them.”

It was a typical evening at home, when Shirley and Jackie heard the news about the Prince. They were in the middle of their daily “Wheel of Fortune” showing, when Eyewitness News broke in with the news the purple bra and the big event at Madison Square Garden sponsored by the Royal Family.

The newscaster showed a photo of the bra.

“From all accounts, the “Royal” bra is a 34B.”

“Hell, I CAN fit my DDs in that, if I really squeeze them tight.” announced Jackie.

“Not if I get on line first,” said Shirley.

Jackie and Shirley adjusted their huge breasts and rushed to the door, each hoping to get on line first, passing their youngest sister, Sarah, on her hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor with Ajax.

“You stay here and keep cleaning, pancake chest.” said Jackie to Sarah. “We have important business to attend to.”

As Jackie and Shirley slammed the door behind them, a tear fell from Sarah’s eye onto the already perfectly clean kitchen floor.

Sarah IS the owner of the purple bra.

(to be continued or not, depending on my mood)

Outdone by My Mother

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The bad thing about having insecurities is that you always looking at the external world, comparing yourself to others.   Today I skipped all blog posts that were about romantic Valentine’s Days.  Was I happy for these lucky bloggers and their contentment with their significant others?  Of course I… oh, who am I fooling.  Bastards.

No matter whatever good happens, a truly negative person only sees that the next person is better off.  I told a friend from film school that I have been taking with this producer about some story idea.  He reminded me about our mega-successful friend who is directing a film with Nicolas Cage.  Jerk.

Thank God for mothers.  Whatever you do, they always put you first.   A mother always makes her son feel like a Prince.   Today I was talking to my mother about my interview post.  She is astounded that so many people have gotten involved. 

“And who’s interviewing YOU?”  she asked.

“Oh, I don’t know.  I’ll probably just put my name at the bottom of the list and let it be random like everyone else.”

“That’s nice.” she said, in her sweet voice.  “I’m being interviewed tomorrow, too.”

“Oh yeah?” I said, laughing.  “Who’s interviewing you?  The Flushing chapter of Hadassah?”

“No, tomorrow, a woman is coming to interview me at work.  From “The New Yorker” magazine.”

“The New Yorker?!”  You’re joking.”

“Why would I be joking.”

“No offense, Mom, but why would “The New Yorker” — one of the most prestigious magazines out there — want to interview you?”

“Well, maybe you need to re-read your “interview” post again where you say that “everybody” is a “somebody.”

The story: 

My mother has worked for one company her entire life, starting the job before she was even married.   It is the literary book publisher of Farrar, Straus, and Giroux.  Although she isn’t an editor or someone with much decision making power, she has been working there since the days when the company had just a handful of employees, lead by the firm’s founder, Roger W. Straus.   Since then, the company has published twenty-one Nobel Prizes winners in literature. Knut Hamsun, Hermann Hesse, T. S. Eliot, Pär Lagerkvist, François Mauriac, Juan Ramón Jiménez, Salvatore Quasimodo, Nelly Sachs, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Pablo Neruda, Eugenio Montale, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Czeslaw Milosz, Elias Canetti, William Golding, Wole Soyinka, Joseph Brodsky, Camilo José Cela, Nadine Gordimer, Derek Walcott, and Seamus Heaney.

With most of the original staff having either passed away or retired, my MOTHER is now apparently the longest-active employee of the famous company.  She has seen the rise and fall of authors and agents, the birth of the mega book stores, the changes in book publishing, and the inevitable growth of the conglomerates eating up the independents.  And The New Yorker wants to ask her a few questions for some general interest article on the firm and book publishing!

Perfect.  I’m going to be interviewed by some dumb random blogger, while my MOTHER is going to be interviewed by The New Yorker!   (Mom, remember to tell her about the blog!  “Citizen of the Month”)

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:   A Merry Tale of Whale Watching

Hello, Look This Site, and F*ck Yourself

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Spam (my added * – because my mother requested)

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Three Cute Birds

Hello, Look This Site, and F*ck Yourself
by Neil Kramer aka Neilochka

Hello, Look This Site, and F*ck Yourself
Were three little birds perched upon my shelf
And depending on my mood that day
I’d point at one and have her say
Hello,” if I was full of glee
And sipping my mornin’ cup of tea
Look this site!” when insecure
And hidden behind my double door
But little birdie number three
I kept behind a lock and key
I’d only use on special days
To special people who deserve the praise
Hello, Look This Site, and F*ck Yourself
Were three little birds perched upon my shelf.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Traditionalists (I completely forgot about this handwriting “meme” from last year!)

My Wife is a Midget

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Today’s blog post was nixed by Sophia. She thought it was too personal. I’m respectful of that. She is absolutely amazing. She “allows” me to write pretty much anything I want. Of course, being a tinge passive-aggressive, I wanted to make sure that my artistic freedom was still intact.

Sophia: You need to check with me first before you write anything personal about ME.

Neil: Do you mean WRITE or PUBLISH?

Sophia: Write.

Neil: Well, I appreciate what you are saying, and I respect it, but you can’t tell me WHAT not to write. I can write anything I want about you.

Sophia: No, you can’t.

Neil: Yes, I can. I just can’t PUBLISH it. But I can write it.

Sophia: Well, I don’t want you to write it.

Neil: Sorry. I’m in therapy now. I know my rights. If I want to write that you are, say — a midget, I can write it. As long as I don’t show it to anyone.

Sophia: But I’m not a midget.  I’m not even short.  You can’t write it.

Neil: I can write it. Even if you aren’t.

Sophia: I’ll sue you.

Neil: You can’t sue me for writing it. You can sue me for publishing it. But I can write, “Sophia’s a midget” all day long if I want — a thousand times in my own Microsoft Word — and you can’t do anything about it.

Sophia: How about this?

Sophia hits me on the head with the newspaper. Conversation over.

P.S.. Just for the record, Sophia isn’t a midget, but I have no problem saying it in the privacy of my own home — when Sophia isn’t here.

The Wider That Her Hips Are

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Have you seen this interesting health news? — Research shows that women with bigger hips have higher IQs than their more slender counterparts. Finally! A way to figure out which readers to dump from my blogroll — the dumb skinny ones. (sorry, size 0 Communicatrix — you just can’t argue with science)

The Wider That Her Hips Are

The wider that her hips are
The higher her IQ
Deena has a nice big ass
So she’s the girl I woo

Mira Sorvino, she’s hourglass
She went to Harvard, did well in class
Keira Knightley, she has no tit
So naturally, she’s as dumb as shit

The wider that her hips are
The higher her IQ
Deena has a nice big ass
So she’s the girl I woo

Her curvy waist, her ample hips
She rides me for an hour
I love the way she conjugates
With all her brainy-power

The wider that her hips are
The higher her IQ
Deena has a nice big ass
So she’s the girl I woo.

Modern Art

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I am here, but do you see me?  I Twitter my voice, but do you know me? 

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I want to step from my box, my canvas, my rectangular prison.

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 I can see your face, but I cannot touch you.

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 I want to feel something.  A touch maybe.  A breath.  Your laughter.

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I imagine you.  Are you wearing red today?  Do you wonder about me?

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Do we look at each other like pieces of art, hanging from the wall, imagining what could be, but never daring?

The New Yorker Typo

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Now I understand what they mean when a creative artist like a musician or novelist hits his “sophomore slump.” After the terribly exciting Holiday concert, I stepped into a minefield by talking about religion and politics. I immediately went searching for a new post idea that I could put up quickly, sending the last post one notch down (and we all know that no one, except the crackpots, ever reads anything other than the last post!)

As I perused The New Yorker in the bathroom (thank you, Leesa, for getting it for my birthday last year), my next post leaped at me like a horny tiger. On Page 65 of the October 29, 2007 issue was a cartoon with a caption that read “I have my mother’s vindictive nature and my father’s garnisheed wages.” Garnisheed? The New Yorker made a typo! They wrote “garnisheed” rather than “garnished!” The New Yorker, cultural icon! And I, Neil Kramer, found a typo. I couldn’t control my laughter. Where were their famous editors? I ran to my computer and wrote a hilarious “letter to the editor” where I basically blackmail them into letting me edit an entire issue dedicated to myself and the “Cult of Citizen of the Month.” While it was a humor piece, I was also half hoping that the New Yorker would Google themselves, discover what I found, and be so impressed, that they decide to actually dedicate an entire issue to my sexual exploits.

I decided to google “garnisheed” to see if anyone else might have spotted the typo before me. Instead, I discovered something else.

gar·nish·ee (gärn-sh)
n.
A third party who has been notified that money or property in his or her hands but belonging to a defendant has been seized by legal writ.
tr.v. gar·nish·eed, gar·nish·ee·ing, gar·nish·ees
1. To seize by garnishment: garnishee a debtor’s wages.
2. To serve with a garnishment: garnishee an employer.

WTF?! Garnisheed is an actual WORD?!

That’s it. I’m not blogging any more until this sophomore slump ends.

A Screenwriter’s Life

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Health stuff, marital ups and downs, the sarcastic wit of the gods, and especially — my own poor mental focus, have not been kind to my writing. Except for blogging, of course, which flourishes in times of chaos, I haven’t been working on any projects lately that could advance my career.  One blogger once suggested I combine some of the better posts into a book, but for the life of me, I have no idea what type of book that would be or WHO would buy it.  Even my own mother would probably wait until it was half-price at the Strand Bookstore in Manhattan.  Still, lately, I have been feeling inspired, half from therapy and half from seeing the tenacity of others, like Laurie, who accomplished her life-long goal of getting published.

Hmm… what could my book be about? —

“Me and My Penis” by Neilochka

“Separated but Unequal: My Marriage to Sophia.” by Neilochka

“One Man’s Spiritual Search for ABBA” by Neilochka

“Payola and the Promoter: The True Story Behind the Chrismahanukwanzaakah Concert” by Neilochka

 Eh, I’m more of a fiction person, anyway.

However, since this is Hollywood, I’m going to first start on another screenplay (bleh!). I was hoping to dump the Hollywood scene because I’m not much of a schmoozer. I know some of you are grumbling about the Writer’s Guild Strike and all these selfish multi-millionaire writers, but be assured — they are not the norm. I’m sympathetic to the crew members who are losing their jobs, but I don’t consider them “small guys.” These are well paid craftspeople who make a good living because of THEIR own unions! The strike is not just about the big-time writers. This strike opens the door for everyone in Hollywood to share in whatever profits are made from new outlets. Both Sophia and I supplement our incomes from residuals from projects completed years ago.

About two months ago, I received an email from an independent director in town (he made one film that did well at a film festival). He liked some of my posts and wanted to know if I wanted to work on some pitches with him. A well-known producer had seen his film and was anxious to hear some ideas — something comedic and Apatow-ish. We met a few times and we got along pretty well. We’re not officially “partners” as of yet, but we decide to join forces. We each offered something different — he was more “artsy” and I wrote better sex gags. The producer was looking specifically for certain types of projects, including scripts that might appeal to single men (you know, films about a bunch of guys looking to get laid — not that I would know anything about this subject!) However, since I’m not currently on the dating scene (and never actually picked up any women EVER), I had to do a little research to get ready. I had never even heard of the term “Wingman” before this year. Now, after watching the full “Pick-up Artist” and every Maxim magazine of 2007, I have an intimate understanding of the horny 24 year-old male (and his lingo, dude!)

My writing “partner” and I were supposed to meet with the producer two weeks ago — but just our luck, the Writer’s Strike! We certainly didn’t want to meet with him, even informally, during a strike, or we would be as bad as Jay Leno not paying his laid-off staff. So, we wait… and wait..

There is an art to pitching in Hollywood. You get together a couple of good stories and tell them verbally to the producer or development person, trying to get him excited enough to pay you to go on to the next step — writing something! If this fails for us, we might actually just write the script on spec — like real men. I actually prefer to write the script first, but since we have this opportunity to pitch it and make a few bucks, we might as well go for it. I have a habit of getting down on myself, so I’m trying to remain positive. It’s THE SECRET!

There are some writers who are known as brilliant pitchers. They stand in front of their listener, looking all confident, and spin sentences like “This story is “Harry Meets Sally” meets ‘Pirates of the Caribben” — neurotic New York couple travel to the past and become pirates!

Producer: “I want that! It’s a deal. Here’s a million dollars!”

We still don’t know when we will get a chance to pitch. It depends on the strike. I’m also supposed to go to New York for two weeks very soon. I hope this doesn’t screw up my plans.

Today, I called up my partner and said we should practice our verbal pitches over and over, just to be ready. The trouble is that both of us get distracted by life at home. The solution — we’re going to hole up in a hotel for two days and just work undistracted (yeah, right)! So later on today, I’m going to kiss Sophia, say Happy Hanukkah, and disappear for a day or so and room with some guy I hardly know. I hope we get two beds. So if I don’t blog, you know where I am. Well, you actually won’t — but it will probably be at some dumpy Comfort Inn in Torrance without wireless.

Fans Shocked at Bugs Bunny Gay Revelation

NEW YORK (AP) — Only a week after the announcement that the character in the Harry Potter series is gay, the fictional world is again shocked with the revelation by Steven Blanc, son of voice artist Mel Blanc, that the perennial prankster “Bugs” Bunny of Looney Tunes cartoons is also gay. This announcement, while unexpected, give new and clearer meaning to many of the on-screen exchanges between the smart-aleck “wacky wabbit” and his put-upon nemesis, Elmer Fudd.

Bugs Bunny was in love with his male rival, Steven Blanc says.

The author of “Bugs and Elmer: A Forbidden Love,” stunned fans at the Academy of Motion Pictures annual Warner Brothers Looney Tunes Night, when he answered one young reader’s question about Bugs by saying that he was gay and had been in love with Elmer Fudd for years.

‘”You have to remember that this was Hollywood of the Golden Age, even before Rock Hudson. The studio just wouldn’t allow it. Instead, Bugs and Elmer expressed their love for each using homosexual codes of the day, such as Elmer pointing a gun at Bugs, and Bugs responding with a squirt of seltzer in his face. Those in the closeted gay community clearly knew that Bugs famous “What’s Up, Doc?” was the password to get entry into the notorious Hammer Club on the Sunset Strip.”

The news of Bugs Bunny’s homosexuality brought gasps, then applause at the Academy, and set off thousands of e-mails on Warner Brothers cartoon Web sites around the world. Some were dismayed, others indifferent, but most were supportive.

” ‘BUGS BUNNY IS GAY’ is quite a headline to stumble upon on a Friday evening, and it’s certainly not what I expected,” added Looney Tunes fan Charlie Johnson, of Trenton, New Jersey. “(But) a gay character in the most popular cartoon in the world is a big step for gay rights.”

Note, November 2010:  This is not true.  It is a joke.  This was NOT approved by Warner Brothers.   And Mel’s son’s real name is Noel.  And just so you know — Bugs Bunny is probably my biggest literary influence.

The Werewolf: The Scariest Halloween Tale Ever

I don’t like Halloween. I don’t like that children walk around play-acting as if they are ghouls and goblins, as if it is all a joke. Because it isn’t. There are dangers in this world that are too gruesome to even talk about.

I told Rob to be careful. He was one of my oldest childhood friends. We were in our mid-twenties, single, full of vigor, our entire lives ahead of us. We were camping in Colorado. Neither of us knew much about camping, seeing as we were both nice Jewish boys from Queens. We wanted to try it… to see the stars at night. Before we left, we attended a class at Paragon Sporting Goods near Union Square, where we learned to pitch a tent and filter our water. However, no teacher could ever prepare us for… the wolf.

I told Rob to be careful. Don’t go to far from the campsite at night. He laughed. He was just going to take a pee. I heard the sudden rush of the leaves, the scream, Rob on the floor, and beady eyes of the wolf, blood dripping from its paw. When the wolf saw me, he ran away. Why? I will never know. I rushed Rob to a hospital in Boulder. He would be OK. He only received flesh wounds. Rob was lucky that I showed up at the moment when the wolf attacked. He would live. At that moment, neither of us knew that his living was an option worse than death.

After our camping trip in Colorado, Rob moved to Chicago, and we lost touch. I frequently thought about him. What was his life like? Was he married? I searched for him on Google, with no success. Last week, I received a phone call from Rob. He said he needed to open up to someone, to unburden himself from the years of terror. He told me a story that made my hair turn white.

The following is a verbatim transcript of the phone conversation:

Rob: “After our trip, I moved to Chicago to work for an investment firm. It was a good job and I felt that I was a success. I was dating a lot of hot babes and my life was good. The only difficulty I had was with my arm — where the wolf bit me. The wound would burn like hell, as if ten thousand needles were being shoved into my arm. I would get faint at work and pass out. I started making mistakes with my clients, even losing millions of dollars by selling stocks short. I was fired, disgraced. No on would hire me. My body felt weird, as if it was elongating. I noticed hair growing all over my body, at a rapid rate. I had an insatiable urge to eat meat, even raw meat right from the package at the supermarket.

The worst was when there was a full moon at night. I would wail like an animal. All I could think about was finding a woman, a virgin, and devouring her like a monster. My body grew grotesque and my clothes felt so constraining, that I shredded them to pieces. Full of blood-lust, I careened down North Michigan Avenue, naked, my ears flared, my fangs ready, growling as my nose smelled the scent of a nearby virgin. She was standing outside the Gap, having just bought a pair of khakis, when I stood on my hind legs, and raised my paws, ready for the attack. She screamed, her face in shock at seeing a man-wolf on a city street, but as she looked me over, she started laughing, hysterically.

I made a hideous growling sound, but she just chuckled and pointed.

“Your penis. It’s so small!” she said.

Horrified at her mockery, I ran from her while crying, the cold Chicago wind hitting my face. I raced up the stairs of my building and jumped into my apartment, closing the door behind me. Disgraced and embarrassed, I spent the night watching “Millionaire” and eating raw meat. I was a failure as a werewolf.

I tried several more times, whenever a full moon hung high over the city. I could feel the transformation of my body, the saliva that would build up in my mouth, and the deadly paws that were ready to pounce on a new victim, but whenever I would raise my man-wolf body in the attack position, the woman would laugh at my penis.

I went to my family doctor, Dr. Eugene Fishback. I told him that I used to have a normal sized penis, but ever since I became a werewolf, it shrunk.

“Very interesting, Rob.”

“I’m not Rob anymore, Dr. Fishback. I’m the Werewolf.”

“I understand that. But your insurance still has you down as Rob. It’s probably better that we stick with that for insurance reasons.”

“Yes, good idea. Thanks, Doctor. So, what about the penis?”

“Well, the test results show that you’re getting a tremendous amount of adrenaline in your system whenever you transform into a wolf, and it is having an affect akin to steroids. It is changing your body in many ways, one of them being that it is shrinking your penis.”

“How can I be an effective werewolf with such a small penis?”

“It is mostly in your head, Rob. I’m sure there are werewolves with all sorts of penises. It shouldn’t really affect your performance when you go out searching for prey.”

But it did. I’ve always been insecure about things. Even in elementary school I used to get Bs on my report card, and I didn’t feel as smart as you.”

Neil: Oh, come on, Rob… I mean Werewolf. You were always very popular. Grades in school didn’t really matter that much.”

Rob: “But they did to me. I felt the same insecurity as a werewolf. Here I was, looking all scary and dangerous, from the waist up, but one little thing below the waist made my victims laugh at me.”

Neil: “Could the doctor do anything for you?”

Rob: “He gave me some pills, but nothing worked. I just got headaches. I tried Prozac for depression. Nothing. I went to herbalists, Chinese doctors — nothing worked. Finally I decided I needed help. I enrolled in a 12 step program for Monsters and Ghouls who don’t quite live up to their own standards. There was a witch who would get yeast infections from riding her broom, a vampire without teeth, and the ghost who was too lazy to scare anyone.”

Neil: “Did it help?”

Rob: “Not really. But I made some good friends. I became particularly close with the witch, Syeira, and we sort of hit it off. We became friends… with benefits. Man, was she wild! One day, she saw that I was moping around, looking at my small werewolf penis, when she said she might be able to help me. She opened up an ancient book of spells, and started to chant:

Wagga Wanna Wigga
Make His Penis Bigger

The room started to shake and I felt a surge of energy in my body. I screamed. I revolved like a whirling dervish and was thrown against the wall. I dusted myself off and stood up… and Syreira had succeeded! My penis was twice as big as it was originally! It was the happiest day of my life. I grabbed her and made love to her for the rest of the night.”

Neil: “That’s great. I’m so glad that you are happy!”

Rob: “The story isn’t over. The true horror has not even begun!”

Neil: “Oh no!”

Rob: “We’re men, you and I. We always screw things up, right?. Despite being happy with Syreira and my now-successful life as a scary werewolf with a giant penis, I found it hard to commit to just one woman.”

Neil: “I hear ya.”

Rob: “After coming home from a long night ravaging a virgin, I’m not in the mood to do the dishes, or talk about “her day.” I told her that if she gets yeast infections from her broom, she should just stop being a witch and stay at home and clean. She didn’t talk to me for a week.”

Neil: “Yeah, relationships are tough.”

Rob: “One weekend, Syreira came home from some witches’ convention a day early, and caught me in bed f**king her sister. She went crazy, calling me every name in the book. I tried to apologize, saying she was partly to blame. After all, she’s the one who gave me my new penis. Shouldn’t I be sharing it with the world?”

Neil: “It makes sense to me.”

Rob: “She immediately ran to her book of spells, and chanted:

Woodle Yoodle Oodle
Turn Him to a Poodle

And the damn harpy turned me into a poodle. A little white poodle. That’s what I am right now. That’s why you never hear from me. Can you imagine how difficult it was to use the phone?”

Neil: “But what about being the werewolf?”

Rob: “I’m not a werewolf anymore. I LOVED being a werewolf! Now I’m a stupid poodle!”

Neil: “I’m so sorry, Rob. I’m so sorry.”

Rob: “And the scariest thing is that she kept the new penis on me, so as I walk, it scrapes against the floor, causing me pain — just to punish me for my transgression.”

Neil: “My God, how cruel.”

Rob: “Women who feel wronged are the cruelest.”

Neil: “This is the the most HORRIFIC story I have ever heard.”

Note: Be careful… on Halloween!

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